


Witness

by Slyboots



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: 5 Times, Ambiguous Slash, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Cybertronian Civil War, Emotionally Repressed, Gen, Gladiators, Politics, Soundwave Week 2020, Subtext, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25103245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slyboots/pseuds/Slyboots
Summary: "Had Soundwave been able to weep, he might have, for Soundwave had a private weakness still for eloquence."Five moments, from the pits of Kaon to the last desperate days of the war, in which Soundwave did not question his loyalty to Megatron.
Relationships: Megatron & Soundwave
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42
Collections: Soundwave Week 2020





	Witness

**Author's Note:**

> Primarily Prime-compliant, with a few nods to other continuities as usual.
> 
> Written for Soundwave Week 2020.

_I. We Who Are About To Die_

“--spring you from your bout with Groundpounder.”

Beneath the pits lay a warren of reeking mineshafts, where whispers echoed. The clever cut no deals and brokered no alliances here; the merely cynical broke their oaths beneath the pits of Kaon, and waited for the word to spread.

Acrid steam flooded the tunnel, condensing on Soundwave’s visor. Far below, they were smelting the freshly-dead.

Lately there were so many dead. After Decimus’s tax-break bill they’d flooded the gladiatorial ranks, the disaffected and the freshly-redundant, and they’d been chopped down in their dozens. Soundwave had killed his share, without sentiment.

Sentiment was sweet in the crowds’ audials; sentiment pacified and sentiment soothed. Passion was  _ de rigueur _ in the ring, and so much of it a put-on. Pretty words were as meaningless as they were expected.

_ We who are about to die salute you,  _ indeed. After a stellar cycle in the pits, few gladiators cared for more than their next meal, their next sunset.

“Throw the match,” wheedled Kneebreak again. “No one would blame you. D-14’s getting himself a nice little audience--a little, what say, pressure release valve--” His synth shorted, his laugh a cackle. “The hydraulic model of politics. D-14-- _ Megatronus _ \--says his little speeches and he gets the common mechs all roiled up and they think he’s speaking for them. Blows off a little steam when he wins.” Kneebreak snorted, spitting black oil; it flashed into steam, hitting the tunnel’s greasy walls. “It’s theater. It’s all theater,  _ Soundwave _ .”

An insult, Soundwave determined. Few gladiators entered the ring with their own designations. Few gladiators had been anyone worthy of note.

“Let D-14 slap you around,” said Kneebreak, in that voice like engine grease in Soundwave’s audials. “No harm done. Crowd gets a show.  _ Megatronus _ gets another win in the books.”

From his tone, Kneebreak found D-14 an upstart, and scarcely bothered to hide it.

From his own quarters Soundwave had recorded tinny datatrax of D-14’s speeches; in the warrens of Kaon and through proxy portals Soundwave had bought  _ samizdat _ copies of D-14’s poetry, of his manifesto. He’d copied them, allowed them to echo.

“His fans feel like somebody’s on their side.  _ You _ get time off to recuperate--and boom, no more match with Groundpounder. Everybody wins.” Condensate dripped from Kneebreak’s faceplate onto his ill-fitting armor. His stance was off; Soundwave could have pushed him over, could have run. “What say you, Soundwave?”

Kneebreak watched, avid. No sign did Soundwave give him. Most mechs watched the faceplate only, and paid no attention to the body.

Gladiators learned the whir of mini-motors, the creak of cable-housing, that signaled a blow. So many mechs would benefit from a few quartexes in the pits.

Soundwave reached for Kneebreak’s wrist. Whispers carried quickly, and most Kaonians knew a little chirolinguistics.

Kneebreak offered his hand, but uncertainly. His palms, Soundwave noted, were wet, and the message would carry.

The impulse jumped between them, with an electric snap in the sour air. Soundwave saw a flash of blue, tasted ozone. Kneebreak jerked away, clutching his wrist as if burned.

_ No _ \--even that simple word could hurt.

Kneebreak doubled over, and color washed through his plating. It was not Kneebreak that stood up.

“Thought you’d say no,” said Makeshift, and Soundwave inclined his head. “Word on the Grid is you respect Megatronus.”

Though nothing on the Grid was entirely reliable--

\--or entirely unreliable. Soundwave had for quartexes been salting the Grid with half-truths.

Makeshift watched him, his white optics uneasy. No doubt Makeshift fancied himself unreadable. He was keyed up, his fiber optics on edge; he’d take his payment and drink himself into sloppy stasis--

“He’ll be happy as a Scraplet in bolts,” said Makeshift with patent distaste. “The big guy likes it when they fight back. Says he likes a fair bout.”

Soundwave inclined his head again, and let Makeshift make of it what he pleased.

_ II. Ratchet _

“I’m not naive. I’m not shocked you’re having Orion tailed.”

In Iacon they met at Maccadam’s; in Kaon they met at the Jump Joint. It was best, they’d agreed in simpler times, if they had a crowd of witnesses.

“But frankly, what you want with a rusty old doc-bot like me--”

He let Ratchet bluster. Mechs like Ratchet, who felt too much and too loudly, were their own worst enemies.

Soundwave ordered nothing for himself; for Ratchet he ordered a tall mug of Visco, poured in full sight of the crowd (so no one could call it poisoned); for Laserbeak and Ravage he ordered the usual, and tipped generously.

“I’m not going to say I’m apolitical.” Ratchet drank deeply. “Primus knows I’d like to be that self-deluded--that foolish--it’d make everything a whole lot simpler--” He searched Soundwave’s visor for an optic to meet, for some hint perhaps of empathy. Soundwave had naught to give. “I could patch up my patients and go  _ home _ . Do you know how often I get to go home?”

And Ratchet’s tone soured as he said it.

“Oh, well. You  _ do _ know.”

Soundwave leaned down, stroking Ravage’s head with a forefinger, letting Ratchet smolder and stew.

He’d chosen Ratchet to lean on; it had taken so little. Orion Pax smiled that blank smile, that smile that revealed nothing and reflected only what the observer brought with him--and that Soundwave respected, without ill-will. Soundwave had so little time for ill will. But Ratchet was all grudges and old wounds, all passions so thick he might choke on them, all  _ sentiment _ \--

Ratchet was loyal to Orion, plainly. Whether Orion was loyal to anyone at all Soundwave could not say.

“Well, you’ve brought me here, good job, very impressive,” snapped Ratchet, “aren’t you going to say something?”

From his surface memory banks Soundwave pulled Orion’s voice, sweet and clear and guileless. “Let us remember those we’ve lost--to accident, to despair, to war, to treachery--”

“He never said that,” stuttered Ratchet, holding up a finger, going ashen. “I won’t sit here and listen to you twist his words like that--”

And yet he sat, and he listened, as Soundwave reeled off the speech.

And perhaps Orion Pax had said something like it after all, or something close. Perhaps he’d merely have agreed with the spirit. Orion Pax was no blind optimist; Orion Pax understood  _ realpolitik _ .

By the third repetition of Orion Pax’s speech--tweaking pauses, shading intonations--he’d built up an Orion in three dimensions, an Orion Soundwave understood, an Orion who was three parts Megatronus--

“No,” said Ratchet, venting softly, and Ravage looked up with a low motor-purr. “If you think your little mind games are convincing, Soundwave, you don’t know the first thing about Orion.”

Frustrating--but distantly. Soundwave had no time for pique.

“Such loyalty,” said Soundwave, in Megatronus’s voice, “will be rewarded as it deserves.”

He enjoyed that, too, the play of shock and fear and disgust in Ratchet’s face.

_ III. Chirolinguistics _

For three solar cycles Megatronus had held forth. Had Soundwave been able to weep, he might have, for Soundwave had a private weakness still for eloquence. Yet dutiful as a data clerk he catalogued Megatronus’s speeches, uploading tinny copies to the Grid. At once the downloads began, and from Vaporex to Tarn the mirrors sprung up, and Megatronus’s words spread like a virus.

Nothing would be forgotten, while civilization existed on Cybertron--

\--though of late even that was in doubt.

Afterward, they returned to their habsuite. It was sterile, and in the air and in the walls Soundwave tasted the telltale prickle of surveillance frequencies.

“Permission,” he said, merely, in his own voice, and “your hand?”

So often they’d done this. Soundwave’s fingers buzzed on Megatronus’s wrist, feeling the dings in the metal, ghosting over the armor. Chasing eddies in Megatronus’s signal.

How much more intimate than speech, and how much more private, to speak circuit-to-circuit, as if for an instant they were one being.

_ Query: success? _

Even in chirolinguistics he was brief. There was no need for pleasantries between them.

_ Success, yes--but hardly unqualified. _ The sky-blue glow in Megatronus’s optics dimmed by a degree; his motors whirred as he settled heavily into his berth.  _ As long as the Air Command wants control of Trypticon Station Tarn won’t yield-- _

_ Acknowledged. _

Megatronus seemed so often to yearn for the rhythms of what he called real speech. Soundwave tried, out of respect, to oblige.

_ We’re stymied at every turn, Soundwave. I’ve never seen such a pack of cowards and glory hounds.  _ Megatronus lowered his helm.  _ I yearn for the simplicity of Kaon, when ripping a mech’s head from his shoulders was enough to silence him. Now three more pop up and call him a martyr. _

Megatronus seemed to wait for something, his signal crackling under Soundwave’s touch.

_ Acknowledged, _ Soundwave tried.

_ There will be war. I welcome war _ . Megatronus smiled, and it was a bitter smile, shot with anger and resignation and the grim joy of finding one’s quarry finally in sight. And perhaps grief, for something Soundwave could not fathom. _ Orion Pax will call me a monster. Air Commander Starscream will shriek about treachery with his synthesizer and then turn around and squawk about an alliance through his exhaust port. History will watch-- _

And  _ history _ meant Soundwave, Soundwave knew.

_Shockwave will call me deranged._ _Very likely we’ll all go out in a blaze of ugly glory._ Megatronus’s fingers tightened on Soundwave’s wrist, and a little jolt shot through Soundwave’s fiber optics. _And you, Soundwave? Will you stay by my side?_

_ Yes _ .

It came out too quickly, too automatically, and Megatronus tilted his head back and watched his own reflection in Soundwave’s faceplate.

_ Yes yes yes yes. _

_ I can’t promise you much. Glory, if we win. A chance to remake our world in your preferred image--whatever that might be. _ A touch of amusement, perhaps, in the pressure of Megatronus’s fingertips, the sickly burn of his signal.  _ You’ll write history books. You’ll tell our story exactly as you imagine it. If we survive-- _

Megatronus’s optics were transported, their soft glow electric. In the shabby habsuite he seemed impossibly real, as if the world itself dimmed around him, as if all else were merely some memory from Soundwave’s data structures, some reconstructed simulation--

_ \--and if we don’t, I suppose it doesn’t matter. _ Megatronus laughed aloud, and Soundwave’s fingertips buzzed over his armor.  _ Remember this, Soundwave. I gave you the choice. Will you go back to Kaon, take up our old vocation--you were an excellent gladiator _ \--

_ No. No no no. _

And Soundwave’s motor picked up, and in the dull silence it echoed as loud and jarring as speech.

_ \--Or will you follow me, mad as I might be? _

_ Yes. Yes I will yes you know I will yes-- _

_ IV. The Long Silence _

And then the long silence, and the bitter dark.

Soundwave counted the solar cycles, but indifferently. Across the void of space he tracked Megatron’s signal; often it guttered out, and always it returned, distant and frantic, beating against Soundwave’s breast like a war drum.

Three Terran years. 

Starscream barked orders, and without complaint or contest Soundwave obeyed them.

Three years.

Makeshift kept his distance, as he’d long kept his distance. This, Soundwave guessed, was perhaps decency--or merely an admirable distaste for chatter.

Three years.

On Terran soil he tracked Knock Out of Velocitron and Breakdown-who-had-been-Menasor, their life signals strong and defiant, and Soundwave said nothing to Starscream.

Three years--

And then Megatron’s signal blazed like a supernova in the dark, and Starscream ordered the space bridge opened, and everything began again.

_V. Into The Dark_

Soaked to the elbow joint in poisoned Energon, Knock Out regarded him with brows raised. Knock Out had always fancied himself canny.

“Oh,  _ come on _ , really. I feel like I’m talking to  _ myself _ \--and I’m a lousy audience.”

His fingers twitched, their mini-servos squeaking. Energon dripped from his talons, almost inaudibly spattering the floor.

“I know you’re listening, Soundwave, unless you’ve died standing up--”

He vented, optics red with rage. Knock Out would’ve been dismembered in his first gladiatorial bout, thought Soundwave, with no particular emotion. Breakdown might’ve survived longer--

“This is madness. D’you hear me? Stark staring raving madness. We’re all a klik away from firing each other out the airlock because somebody  _ moved _ wrong. Starscream’s gone Quisling for the forty-second time. Megatron’s--” His face contorted. Contempt was easy to read, and easier to weaponize. “Megatron’s a burnt-out shell who got it into his glitched processor to inject the crystallized blood of an ancient god I don’t  _ believe _ in--”

The air crackled with Knock Out’s anger.

“Shockwave keeps bleating at me about  _ logic _ , and I  _ defy _ you, Soundwave, to find one scrap of logic anywhere on this bug-glitch ship--”

His voice rose.

“And I just finished  _ smelting _ the corpse of the one mech on this Primus-forsaken crew who gave a single solitary scrap about loyalty--and look where it got Breakdown--”

Knock Out’s armor was too fragile, and his Spark too bright.

“Stay the course, Knock Out,” said Soundwave, in Breakdown’s low voice, and Knock Out rounded on him.

“Would you look at that?” His smile was bright with hate; this at least Soundwave understood implicitly. “You almost made me  _ feel _ something. Does that trip your circuits?”

The silence stretched out.

There was no true silence on a ship as large as the  _ Nemesis _ . Below them, the engines hissed and thudded; above them the few remaining Vehicons rallied, chanting senselessly; in the medbay the smelting chamber roared, and Breakdown’s body returned to raw materials; and not so far away Starscream schemed and Shockwave toiled and Megatron, Megatron, Megatron--

All of it Soundwave drank in, lingering on nothing. Distantly he pitied Knock Out, who could hear only himself, and only his own small anger.

“I’ll bet you know just about everything about me, Soundwave,” said Knock Out, and there was real weariness in it, however he tried to hide it. “You know just what a slick little malfunction I am, eh? No point kissing up to  _ you _ . Not a loyal circuit in my system.”

With the soft squeak of motors and with something like pity Soundwave inclined his head, and Knock Out stepped back.

“You can stop this madness,” breathed Knock Out, and for all his cool there was a desperate edge in it. “Megatron might be raving loony--but you--you can make him see  _ something _ like reason--”

“No,” said Soundwave in his own voice.

Knock Out sank into himself. “Well. It  _ was _ worth a shot.”

“I gave my word,” said Soundwave, in Breakdown’s voice, “a long time ago, and I hope to the Pit it means something--”

And in his own voice, “Go. Now. No more talk.”

Alone on the ship, with the voices of the dead and the living thrumming in his armor and crackling in his processor, Soundwave waited for the end to come.


End file.
